Page 7 of Bride Bargain

Trying the cake. Right. The beautiful cake that Elliot bought us as a gift, and that I mashed into his mess-hating face in a moment of complete madness.

“I’m good,” I say, trying to sound confident and jovial and not at all like someone whose fragile world is crashing down around her ears. Getting married was supposed tofixa problem, not create a whole new one, damn it, but ever since Elliot slid that ring onto my finger, I’ve been knocked off balance.

My boss tuts and leans his face closer to mine again. “Come on, Claire. Try it.”

He’sgoadingme. The bastard’s actually goading me, his eyes sparking with challenge, and Elliot must be deadly determined if he’s allowing this mess to go on for longer than it needs to. Fine! This evening has already been weird enough. Why not add one more thing to obsess over for the next fifty years?

“You don’t mean this,” I say, tossing the cloth into the sink and placing both hands on Elliot’s shoulders for balance. One set of fingers is smeared with chocolate icing, but hey, this suit is already beyond help. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Ramsay.”

It’s Elliot’s first true smile of our wedding day, and like always, it’s a sucker punch to my chest. He takes both sides of my waist, squeezing gently, and my body sways automatically toward his. “Claire?Try me.”

Woof. Okay.

I push up onto my toes slowly. So, so slowly, bringing my face toward his. Elliot has plenty of time to realize what I’m doing, to flinch away, but… he doesn’t. He waits, patient and handsomeand smeared in rich chocolate cake as I crane my neck and bring my lips to his jaw.

God.

Heat pulses through my insides, needy and insistent, as an ache starts up between my legs. My knees wobble. For years, I’ve pictured what it might be like to kiss, to cling, to make love to somebody—okay, just to Elliot—and now my body is primed and ready to see what it’s really like. The crazy hormones zinging through my bloodstream don’t care that we got married for PR; not when the heat of his hands sears through my dress and brands me forever.

Elliot’s breath is warm against my cheek. His hands are tight on my waist, squeezing me in close—like for once, he doesn’t want to assert his personal space. Like for once in his life, he’senjoyingthe sensation of another person’s body heat seeping through his clothes. Huh.

I’m dizzy as my teeth rasp gently against Elliot’s late night stubble. Sweet, decadent chocolate spreads across my tongue, cut through with the sweet sharpness of red berries, and I can’t help my quiet moan.

Elliot’s breath comes faster. His heart booms in his chest, so loud I can hear it in this quiet kitchen where the only other sounds are the rustle of our clothes and thedrip, drip, dripof the faucet I didn’t turn off all the way.

And… is my awkward boss…intothis?

Is he affected by this too?

Pulse fluttering, I drag my lips along Elliot’s jaw to his chin. He doesn’t stop me. No: he grunts, letting out a rough sound of encouragement, and widens his stance on the kitchen tiles so I can press even tighter against his body.

I do. You’d better believe I do.

For the record, since Elliot Ramsay’s body is uncharted territory: when you press against him, he’s every bit as solidand muscled andclimbableas he looks from a distance. Except up close, you also smell his fresh, masculine soap and feel his heartbeat thudding through his shirt. Up close, you can lick the pulse point tapping frantically beneath his left ear and taste the salt on his skin.

And—okay. There was no cake beneath Elliot’s ear. I have no excuse for roaming over there, but the crazy thing is, he doesn’t seem to mind. Right now Elliot is messy and flustered and pressed against another human body, and an hour ago I’d have sworn that would be his worst nightmare—but the groan he lets out is pure pleasure. It reverberates around the kitchen and makes my toes scrunch against the cool tiles.

“This cake is good,” I whisper, dragging the tip of my nose across Elliot’s cheek. My tongue flicks out, licking away a smear of chocolate icing fromjustabove my boss’s upper lip, and twin shudders coast through our bodies. “Thanks for buying it.”

“Sure.” Elliot soundsruined,both arms wrapped around me now. Clutching me as close as we can possibly get without… well, you know. If he holds me like this for long, we may never peel apart. “It’s from that bakery by the river.”

“Oh, the cute one?”

IfeelElliot’s grin rather than see it. “You think every independent bakery is cute.”

“Well, they are.”

Lord, how are we making casual conversation right now, with our chocolate-smeared faces rubbing together like cats? How are we sounding normal as we do this?How?

“I’m sorry I mashed it into your face and made such a mess.” My tongue darts out again, licking a chocolate glob from the corner of Elliot’s mouth. He grunts, hips pressing against mine, and yeah, he definitely doesn’t hate this. Not like I thought he would—not if the hard bulge in his pants is anything to go by.Can’t let myself dwell on those sensations too much or I’ll lose the final shreds of my sanity.

“I don’t mind,” Elliot grates out, tilting his head one way to give me better access to the delicious, chocolatey mess. Neck aching a little from craning up so long, I slide my lips across his cheek even though I’m running out of cake. Running out of excuses to touch my best friend like this. “Like you said. It’s tradition.”

That… settles me back on my heels. Just two words, and I’m snapped out of whatever hormone-addled fugue I was in.

Chocolate icing is sticky on my cheeks as I blink up at Elliot. I studiously avoid my reflection in the dark window like my life depends on it. “Tradition?”

Is that why he’s doing this, why he’s letting me rub up against him like a needy weirdo? Tradition?

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